And then the king grew old like Lear—­
His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray;
He changed his sceptre for a staff: 
And as the thoughtless children laugh
To see him totter on his way,
He knew his destined hour was near.

And soon it came; and here he strives,
Outstretched upon his snow-white bier,
To reconcile the dread account—­
How stands the balance, what the amount;
As we shall do with trembling fear
When our last hour arrives.

Come, let us kneel around his bed,
And pray unto his God and ours
For mercy on his servant here: 
Oh, God be with the dying year! 
And God be with the happy hours
That died before their sire lay dead!

And as the bells commingling ring
The New Year in, the Old Year out,
Muffled and sad, and now in peals
With which the quivering belfry reels,
Grateful and hopeful be the shout,
The King is dead!—­Long live the King!

THE AWAKING.

A lady came to a snow-white bier,
  Where a youth lay pale and dead: 
  She took the veil from her widowed head,
  And, bending low, in his ear she said: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

She pass’d with a smile to a wild wood near,
  Where the boughs were barren and bare;
  She tapp’d on the bark with her fingers fair,
  And call’d to the leaves that were buried there: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

The birds beheld her without a fear,
  As she walk’d through the dank-moss’d dells;
  She breathed on their downy citadels,
  And whisper’d the young in their ivory shells: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

On the graves of the flowers she dropp’d a tear,
  But with hope and with joy, like us;
  And even as the Lord to Lazarus,
  She call’d to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

To the lilies that lay in the silver mere,
  To the reeds by the golden pond;
  To the moss by the rounded marge beyond,
  She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

The violet peep’d, with its blue eye clear,
  From under its own gravestone;
  For the blessed tidings around had flown,
  And before she spoke the impulse was known: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

The pale grass lay with its long looks sere
  On the breast of the open plain;
  She loosened the matted hair of the slain,
  And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

The rush rose up with its pointed spear
  The flag, with its falchion broad;
  The dock uplifted its shield unawed,
  As her voice rung over the quickening sod: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”

The red blood ran through the clover near,
  And the heath on the hills o’erhead;
  The daisy’s fingers were tipp’d with red,
  As she started to life, when the lady said: 
        “Awaken! for I am here.”